One’s liminal ears at the precipice of lemony tears, soured by the duress and distress of all that you hear could only match a crumb of the heartache from the mythopoetic soul that resides in Lemnear. Should sword and sorcery offer a companion piece from a land in the East, this would be most welcome a feast in the midst of past contemporaries deceased. And that it does in its dealings with life and death, truly its effervescence springs forward past its grave leaving none bereft. In the bosom of Indo-European tradition, our heroine embarks a journey through perdition to rescue her sacred kin, andin solace by the end, leaving none chagrin. For in the heart of darkness to overcome spirits resided far too long in the shade, one must be their own light thus that their own will shan’t be betrayed. Yet this light is carried not merely throughout her mortal coil, but into my own earthly toil. As an accompanying presence befitting of her effervescence, this glimmer shines through most soft and tender, in ways which could only beckon sweet surrender. Such concession calls forth faith in an ancient quest which in guise appears only to lie in her breast, but a lamb’s wool doth not make a mere sheath for its delicate form; it nurtures distant life to keep them snug and warm.

Many can share her primordial animosity against the tyranny of grievous monstrosity, and in burdening the warrior residing in all, we can see our own inner sanctuary as more than a place housing a thrall.